


come with me and escape

by La_Temperanza



Series: NSFW Victuuri Week Prompts [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Canon Compliant, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Clubbing, Comeplay, Dancing, Day 3: Roleplay, Exhibitionism, Face-Fucking, M/M, NSFW Victuuri Week, Post-Season/Series 01, Public Blow Jobs, Roleplay, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 08:31:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11482590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Temperanza/pseuds/La_Temperanza
Summary: Viktor meets a hypnotizing stranger dancing in the club and, well, things just naturally progress from there.(For NSFW Victuuri Week Day Three: Roleplay)





	come with me and escape

**Author's Note:**

> You know, when I originally picked the title from the song "Escape" (aka the If You Like Pina Coladas song), I totally didn't intend for that double-entendre, ha ha ha.
> 
> Unbetaed, so please excuse any mistakes.

The frenetic beat of music thrums through Viktor's body the moment he enters the club. It's a grungy, bass-heavy sound, with no lyrics to bog it down from its sole purpose of getting people to the floor and dance.

And oh, how they dance. The center of the club is flowing with a sea of sweating, gyrating bodies, illuminated only by the intermittent flashes of colored spotlights set to time with the thumping of the large subwoofers. The air is hot and thick, smothering, peppered with the smells of perspiration, alcohol, and a mixture of heady body fragrances.

It doesn't take long for Christophe to be lost in the crowd. No doubt he's off doing personal reconnaissance under the guise of finding inspiration for a future skate program.

Viktor doesn't join him, not right away. The night is still young. For the time being he’s willing to watch, wait.

He heads to the bar instead and has to shout his order for it to be heard over the noise. The bartender nods in acknowledgement--or maybe he's just bopping his head to the music. In any case, a beer is slid in Viktor's direction, condensation already starting to bead on the outside of the frosty glass.

Viktor doesn't down it all in one go; he wants the pleasant hum of alcohol in his stomach, in his veins. But he also wants this to last. Wants to remember tonight without any drunken haze surrounding it.

He's nursing his second beer when he sees it; the sign he's been waiting for.

It--or rather _he_ \--is a textbook example of seduction on two legs.

The man that has the rapt attention of Viktor (as well as a few others in the vicinity around him) dances in perfect sync with the music. No, that's not right. It's more like he's the music’s metronome itself, that it's created by the grace and deftness of his movements. His fingers carve valleys through his dark hair, his cheeks flushed a delicious pink underneath the glassy shine of his kohl-lined eyes, his swaying hips and nimble feet suggesting that no, this isn't his first time, but he could always pretend if you'd like.

He is telling a story with his body: _come and get me_.

Some of his fellow club patrons try, sliding up to him with a familiarity that's only acceptable in places such as this. The man humors them for a little while before flitting away like some sort of night nymph, never staying in one place for long.

Viktor's mouth goes dry with want. He gulps down the last of his beer and pushes to his feet, cutting through the crowd with a confidence only someone who's lived most of their life in the spotlight can possess. He knows he's being recognized, if the shocked stares and obvious pointing directed his way is any indication. He's not boasting, that's just how things are, and there's no reason to think otherwise.

Any other time, he might give a coy wink in return or maybe even accept a casual offer to dance. But right now he's on a mission and that's to track down the man that keeps dancing outside of his reach.

When Viktor gets close enough that he gets a better view of what the man is wearing, he nearly trips over himself because _damn_. He can hardly call himself a prude--past streaking escapades with Christophe prove that--but he doesn't think the man’s ensemble can be considered legal. A pair of shorts so tiny they would be better classified as a wide belt are layered over a pair of fishnet stockings that are begging to have a few more holes ripped into them. What was once a t-shirt barely constitutes as one now, the fabric cut high to reveal a lightly tanned midriff marred only by faint, silver lines spanning under the soft curve of a small belly. Viktor's fingers twitch with the urge to trace them, to dip below the waistband and discover where they lead.

And then there's the body glitter. So much fucking glitter. It coats arms, neck, and cheeks in such a sparkly sheen it looks like the guy has been sneezed on by a unicorn with seasonal allergies.

Their gazes finally meet, and at first Viktor isn't sure if he's imagined the flare of heat in the other’s eyes. But then the man smirks before dragging a pink tongue against the bottom of his cherry red lips, and Viktor is too far gone to hesitate now.

He takes one, two long strides, stepping into the man’s personal space, his fingers automatically sliding into belt loops like they belong there. He will fight anyone else who tries to claim that right from him.

“Hi there~” he says by way of greeting. There's no need for cheesy introductions or pickup lines. He thinks him just being himself will be enough.

“Hi there,” the man echoes back. His voice is too low to carry over the crowd. But Viktor is so focused on his mouth that he can practically see the syllables being formed.

“Haven't seen you here before, beautiful,” Viktor says, and okay, maybe that is a bit cliché, but he hopes he acts suave enough about it to pull it off. He follows the movement of the man’s hips, still moving despite the grip Viktor has on them. “What's your name?”

That flush on the man’s face deepens, coloring his neck and going under the collar of his shirt. Viktor wants to find out how far that flush really goes. Preferably with his tongue.

The man goes on tip-toes and leans forward like he's about to share some major secret. Viktor can't stop the shiver that rolls through him when the man says into his ear, “Call me Eros.”

There's no way that's his real name, but Viktor doesn't mention it. It doesn't matter. Two can play at that game. “Vitya,” he offers in return. He figures it's close enough.

Flecks of gold and mirth gleam in Eros’ warm brown eyes. “Well, _Vitya_ ,” he purrs, the sound doing things to Viktor's dick that aren't acceptable in any form of public, “dance with me.”

Viktor starts to argue that they are technically dancing. But the words get stuck in his throat as Eros masterfully flips himself around and _grinds_ his pert ass right against Viktor’s groin.

It's the closest Viktor has gotten to coming in his pants since his days as a horny teenager.

He manages to steady himself by reclaiming his hold on Eros’ hips. It's an awfully possessive gesture, considering the two have just met. But Viktor needs to own this exquisite sexual creature completely and fully, even if only for a fleeting moment.

Their movements soon slot together and form as one, though it's mostly Eros taking charge and Viktor desperately scrabbling to keep up. He can't hope to compete, doesn't dare try to tame the wildness within. If anything, he wants to coax more of it out, wants to see Eros free and unbidden.

Viktor's fingers travel upwards Eros’ sides, thumbs stopping at the dip of hipbones and pressing so hard that evidence of his presence will blossom there later. Eros’ dancing stutters to a stop for a half-second before returning with increased fervor, spurring Viktor on. His hands continue their ascending path, committing to memory the angle of Eros’ curves and the ridges of his bottom ribs. They only pause when they reach the shorn hem of the shirt. Viktor waits, silently asking for permission with a soft tap. When Eros nods, barely noticeable in the dim light but there, Viktor surged underneath the slightly damp fabric and splays his hands against the expanse of Eros’ chest. Immediately he finds a pebbling nipple, circling it lazily before giving it an experimental pinch. The force of the needy whine that erupts from Eros vibrates through Viktor’s touch and into his own core, so he does it again, wanting more, more, _more_.

Eros throws his head back, knocking it against Viktor’s shoulder, and gasps out puffs of hot air into the crook of Viktor’s neck. The collar of his shirt shifts to reveal a sliver of previously uncovered skin and Viktor swoops in to map the new discovery with his mouth. He trails kisses up and down the juncture of Eros’ neck and shoulder, tongue lapping at the well-defined lines of muscles stretching underneath skin. His teeth accidentally scrape in his haste, but just as he’s about to apologize, Eros _groans_ and reaches a hand up to push Viktor’s head down harder.

Viktor can no longer tell time or place; hell, he’s not even sure if there’s music playing any more despite the fact that they’re still dancing. But their movements have transformed into a different type of dance, one that’s better suited better for behind closed doors and between bed sheets. With his hardening cock pressed right between the swell of Eros’ ass, it’s like their deepest carnal desires have been put on display for everyone else to watch.

It’s filthy.

It’s amazing.

It’s not enough.

Eros must be on the same wavelength because he suddenly pulls away from Viktor’s grasp. But before Viktor can lament the bereft feeling the motion leaves him with, Eros’ hands are grabbing the side of his face and tugging him down into a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. It tastes like stale alcohol and something artificially sweet that Viktor can’t quite put his finger on but will always associate with Eros from now on. He chases it into Eros’ mouth, wanting to gather as much of the heady sensation it gives him as he can.

Eros’ hands are on Viktor’s shirt collar now, gripping it so tightly that one of buttons actually flies off somewhere in the club. But Viktor doesn’t care; he can afford to have it replaced tenfold. All that’s on his mind now is how Eros is yanking him forward, leading him back towards the club’s restrooms like he’s a dog on a leash. Viktor’s eyes widen with realization of what this means, and there’s the briefest of moments where he wonders if it’s really okay to go this far. But as soon as the bathroom stall door is locked behind him and Eros has him pressed up against it, those glossy, spit-slickened lips on his neck, all of Viktor’s lingering doubts fade away under the wave of pleasure that crashes through him.

It’s a frenzy of mouths, bodies, and limbs after that, indistinguishable from one another, impossible to tell where one of them begins and the other one ends. More of Viktor’s shirt is undone (sans the button ripping this time), and Eros murmurs his appreciation down against the now bared skin of Viktor’s chest and abs. Viktor somehow finds his hands in Eros' hair, his fingers carding through the black silky strands and rubbing patterns across the scalp. It’s an intimate gesture in sharp contrast with the situation at hand; it’s something that’s done between lovers, not two strangers getting their rocks off in a club bathroom.

Before Viktor can look too much into it, Eros is sucking and biting his way back up before crushing his lips against Viktor’s once more. His hands are wrapped around Viktor’s neck, holding him in place, using him, reminding Viktor that yes, this is what he’s been wanting all along.

“Vitya, Vitya, Vitya,” Eros breathes, repeating Viktor’s name like a mantra. “What do you want? Tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” Viktor blurts out, the cringiness of his words hitting him a beat later.

But Eros smiles at him knowingly, tilting his head to the side and exposing the reddish marks Viktor has already left behind. “How do you want me, then?”

A multitude of possibilities run through Viktor’s mind, all at the same time, screaming to be heard over another. There’s so many ways he can respond, each one as good as answer as the other. But he hasn’t been the lead in this arrangement between them the entire night, so why change that now? He swallows and then says lowly, “Surprise me.”

Yeah, that was definitely the right choice. Eros’ pupils darken until his eyes almost look black. Feral. Dangerous. “Your mouth,” he growls, “Use your mouth.”

“My mouth--” Viktor starts to repeat for clarification, but Eros is pushing down on his shoulders, forcing Viktor to his knees and _oh_. He definitely understands now and begins to salivate at the thought.

He reaches up with shaking fingers to unsnap the button on that ridiculous excuse for shorts only to have his hands swatted away. He glances up at Eros with a questioning eyebrow.

“Your _mouth_ ,” Eros stresses. “Only your mouth.”

_Fuck_. Viktor has to palm his own dick through the denim of his jeans just to take some of the edge off. He’s not going to last if Eros keeps saying things like that.

Right then, only his mouth. Viktor can totally do that. He scoots closer until the noticeable bulge in Eros’ shorts is centimeters from his face. Moistening his lips, he kisses along the length, almost sweetly, before he opens his mouth and sucks at the fabric. He feels Eros’ dick jump in response, hears the low, guttural moan he rips from him, and Viktor grins. He doesn’t know if the wet spot that’s rapidly forming is from him or Eros, or both. Either option is one he can take pride in.

“Look at me,” Eros says, his voice soft but firm, unwavering. When Viktor apparently doesn’t respond fast enough, he grabs Viktor’s chin and forces him to raise his gaze upwards. “ _Look at me_. Don’t take your eyes off me, understand?”

Viktor nods obediently and keens when Eros finally, _finally_ undoes the fastener of his shorts. He shoves them down in one fluid motion, and he must’ve been commando this entire time--a fact that does not help prevent Viktor from blowing his load right then and there--because his cock springs forth, thick and red and ready to have Viktor’s mouth all over it.

“Is this what you wanted?” Eros asks, teasing as he drags it across Viktor’s lips, smearing them with pre-come. Viktor gasps at how lewd the act is and then groans as he tastes Eros’ musk on his tongue. “You wanted my cock?”

Viktor closes his mouth around the tip and hums his agreement. He starts to close his eyes to revel in the feeling, to drown in it, but he remembers Eros’ request at the last minute. He doesn't regret it; the sight of Eros, arching his back against the wall, teeth sinking into those lips, is something that will forever be burned into Viktor's memories.

Viktor's hands curl uselessly on top of his thighs, his own cock straining at the zipper of his jeans. He doesn't trust himself to take it out just yet, afraid it'll be over too soon if he does. Instead he focuses his efforts on taking more of Eros into his mouth, flattening his tongue to run along the veins underneath before swirling around the crown.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eros hisses out shakily. One of his hands is circled around the base of his cock in a tight grip, the other is digging fingers into the back of Viktor’s head. “Vitya, I need...Can I…”

“God yes,” Viktor says, the slurred words dripping from the sides of his occupied mouth. Even if he didn't understand what Eros was asking, he’ll agree to just about anything at the moment.

There's a pause that drags on for far too long and then Eros gives an experimental thrust. He's not huge comparatively, but he's not exactly minuscule either, and hits the back of Viktor's throat on the first go. Viktor feels his eyes start to water from the force of it, but to his credit he doesn't choke. He loosens his jaw and hollows his cheeks, hoping that can help counter any ill-effects of his gag reflex fighting against him.

But Eros has become surprisingly reserved in his movements. His hips stutter to a crawl-still, as if he's holding himself back. But that won't do at all. Viktor wants the exact opposite. He wants Eros to move how he was on the dance floor, fluid and free, without any care in the world.

He lets Eros slip out of his mouth for a tantalizing second, just so he can grind out, “Harder. You can do it harder.”

There's an uncertainty still lurking in the corner of Eros’ eyes, but in a blink it's disappeared. “I will,” he says, “but only if you touch yourself too.”

Viktor doesn't need to be told twice. He frees himself from the prison of his jeans and underwear, the relief of being exposed nearly overwhelming. The pre-come beading at the tip doesn’t provide nearly enough lubrication, but the dry friction is just the thing he needs now. That, and Eros’ cock back in his mouth.

As promised, Eros snaps his hips now with wild abandon, thrusting inbetween Viktor's lips. His hold on the back of Viktor's head strengthens, supporting him, making Viktor feel abused yet protected at the same time.

The unmistakable squelching sounds of their coupling ring out in the bathroom over the muffled music of the club outside, meaning anyone who walked in right now would get a clear idea of what they were doing. Instead of being embarrassed though, Viktor is anything but. He feels nothing but hunger as he continues to stare up at Eros, watching him cycle through the throes of ecstasy just from Viktor's mouth, only his mouth.

“So close,” he hazily hears Eros gasp out above him, “Vitya, I'm going to-- _ah_ , ah…”

Viktor nods, or tries to as best as he can. His own climax has been building closer and closer to the point where it's now an angry animal clawing at his insides in an attempt to be released. He speeds up his hand in response, the burn so delicious, he can't, he can't--

Even though he's expecting it, the first burst of come splashing down in his throat catches him by surprise. But not as much as when Eros withdraws and pumps his cock the rest of the way, coating Viktor's neck, face, and hair with long, white spurts. The act of being effectively marked in such a way is what sets Viktor over the edge, and he lets out a cry as he comes so hard he hits himself in the chin.

Eros is trembling through the last waves of his orgasm, held upright only by his shoulder blades placed squarely against the stall partition. He looks about as wrecked as Viktor feels, his chest heaving with quiet, staggered pants and skin flushed a bright crimson.

“...Mm,” Eros finally hums, breaking through the calm after the storm. He drags a solitary finger through the combined mess they've left on Viktor's face and then slips it in between his kiss-bruised lips. “So good. So good for me.”

He pulls the finger out with a juicy _pop_ before tucking himself back into his shorts, not bothering to refasten them all the way. He then reaches to brush Viktor's sweat-and-come matted bangs to the side and smirks. “See you later then, _Vitya_.”

And then he's gone before Viktor knows it, exiting out of the bathroom and vanishing into the darkness of the club like he never existed in the first place.

Viktor stays behind for a few more seconds to catch his breath, still on the tile floor before realizing what sort of collective body fluids he's probably kneeling in. Grimacing at the thought, he staggers to his feet and zips himself up while heading to check his reflection in one of the mirrors. His lips are cracking red around the corners, his hair is stubbornly sticking up at all the wrong angles, and his impeccable outfit is now wrinkled. Even if he can manage to wash most of the mess off in the sink, everything about his blissed-out appearance screams ‘my brains were just nearly fucked out of my skull and I loved it.’

Christophe is going to tease him mercilessly.

Viktor doesn't care.

*

When Viktor returns home over an hour later--and isn't it nice to think of it as ‘home’ now than just ‘his St. Petersburg apartment’--he finds Yuuri is still awake. He's curled up on the couch with a blanket they ‘acquired’ from Yuu-topia during their last visit, Makkachin snoozing soundly at his feet. His nose is deep in some Japanese to Russian language guide, peering owlishly over his glasses only because he's stubborn and refuses to get bifocals. The calm domesticity of the scene is a complete one-eighty from the club Viktor has just left.

He thinks it's perfect.

“Hi,” Yuuri says softly as Viktor greets him with a peck to his temple. “I was wondering when you'd get back. How was it with Chris? Did you have fun?”

There's a shyness to his words, a hidden plea for reassurance. And all Viktor wants to do is scoop him and gush, _Yuuri, it was amazing! I can't believe--Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri…_

But that would ruin the illusion and break the agreement between them. So instead, Viktor wipes a speck of glitter still stubbornly clinging to Yuuri’s otherwise freshly scrubbed face and simply says, “It was exactly what I wanted.”


End file.
